


LET ME SEE YOU'RE DEAD INSIDE

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blood, Explicit Language, Implied Sexual Content, Leather, M/M, Punk Rock, Violence, punk rock bokuto and band slut akaashi mayhaps?? kind of??, spare me i haven't written in so long, this is very..... hm, uhhh yeah i'm a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 09:57:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14809112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Akaashi hadn’t heard a word from Bokuto for months. He had left in the middle of the night, gifting Akaashi with a poorly scribbled “going on tour. be back in a while.” on the inside cover of his favorite Kafka novel. He was pissed about the ink stains and devastated over Bokuto’s sudden departure, but only really opened up about the ink stains.Akaashi decides to take Bokuto's departure with some salted lemonade.





	LET ME SEE YOU'RE DEAD INSIDE

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this back in October but only got around to finishing it now lmaooo. Which is why it is the way it is. 
> 
> TITLE: SWIM AGAINST THE TIDE BY THE JAPANESE HOUSE
> 
> WARNINGS:   
> \+ Graphic depictions of violence / blood and guts.   
> \+ Plot twist.   
> \+ Mentions of drugs/alcohol/sexy times

"Going out?” 

The sudden monotonous slice through air makes Akaashi’s fingers tremble in surprise, smudging the near-perfect outline of black around his left eye. He curses barely above a whisper. It was best to not let Kenma know that he wanted to look perfect tonight, that even the slightest of imperfections could make him back out of his confidence into the warmth of well-concealed insecurity. So instead of breaking the cheap liquid liner pen in half and chucking it at the hard water stained mirror, Akaashi smacks his lips and stares at his roommate’s reflection. Kenma doesn’t look back at him, too transfixed on his gaming device.

“Yes,” but when the answer isn’t sufficient enough to drive Kenma out of the bathroom he feels his nose twitch in annoyance. “I thought you were going to pay a visit to Kuroo-san tonight.” 

Vinegar eyes meet the glass and Akaashi quirks a well-groomed brow. He was well aware that he was striking a high-strung, poorly tuned chord, but he wasn’t going to let Kenma trap him in their bathroom and let all his wiggling into his too-tight leather skirt be in vain. 

The stutter in Kenma’s apathetic demeanor is too brief to make a difference, though. “No, not tonight. I think he needs more time. But this isn’t about me.” It would have sounded defensive if anyone but Kenma had said it. However, Akaashi doesn’t allow himself to be hypnotized by a too-sharp gaze and blunted verbal strikes, leaning closer into the mirror to smudge the eyeliner on both of his eyes as a distraction. The freshly fucked look suited him, so he’s been told.

But Kenma keeps staring at him, seething tar and tang and Akaashi reaches for the deep red lipstick placed precariously on the edge of the sink. Despite his display of elegance, he fumbles with the tube of wax under the weight of his roommate’s stare, sighing in frustration as he very carefully bends over to pick it up off the floor. Kenma was too good at picking at souls and minds— was a master at cracking open what he so desperately tried to avoid. 

He’s not sure if it’s the silver of the tube or his noticing that his own eyelashes are still clumped together from crying earlier that night, but Akaashi’s mouth opens and his heart bursts open its old wounds. 

“Koutarou’s back in the area,” he seethes at the betrayal of his own teeth. Kenma’s eyes widen. 

“He called you?” The questions stings at Akaashi’s heart because of its answer. 

“No, not exactly.” No, not at all. Akaashi hadn’t heard a word from Bokuto for months. He had left in the middle of the night, gifting Akaashi with a poorly scribbled “going on tour. be back in a while.” on the inside cover of his favorite Kafka novel. He was pissed about the ink stains and devastated over Bokuto’s sudden departure, but only really opened up about the ink stains. “He’s playing a large venue tonight. I should be supportive.”

“He didn’t invite you. You shouldn’t.” Kenma, bless the poor bruised thing in his chest he called his heart, always told Akaashi the truth. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, though. He wanted cotton ball support and unrealistic optimism, none of this concrete reality bullshit. 

“If he’s back then that means something. I deserve—“ he’s not sure what he deserves. Closure? Answers? A good rut in a filthy alleyway behind the warehouse? So his words trail off and instead he pinches at his cheeks to get some color into them. The small blonde notices Akaashi’s lifeless complexion and narrows his eyes. 

“… You haven’t eaten. You always make such rash decisions when you’re hungry. Just stay home, Akaashi.” Kenma’s right. He is hungry. He’s starving. He hasn’t eaten in a day or two and he’s about to go mad from how empty he feels. Though it’s hard to distinguish appetite for food from appetite for affection. Appetite for Bokuto. “You’ll do something you’ll regret.” 

Akaashi huffs and spins around, finally forcing himself to look Kenma in the flesh and blood face rather than the cold glass. “You think so little of me, Kozume-kun?” His eyes glance to the forgotten device dangling in his roommate’s fingers, PAUSED flashing across the dim screen. 

“No. I think you should eat and wait for Bokuto. He left for a reaso-“ 

“It’s only a show. I’ll be one of many audience members. He won’t even know I’m there.” He cuts Kenma off for his own sanity, not wanting to think about reasons for leaving and all those hours wasted watching poorly directed movies about love and sad endings. 

“Is that why you’re dressed like a cheap whore.” 

Kenma is ice cut cold. No melting to dull his edges— only bitter sharpness. Kenma can be mean. Kenma can be cruel. Akaashi feels tears prickle at his smudged eyes, threatening to make him look more like pathetic than sex on legs. 

But Kenma does not do anything without purpose. Kenma does not burn or slash without weighing blood and flesh. He’d cut Akaashiʻs heart out of his chest if it meant the raven couldn’t feel hurt anymore. Bites and mangles the toxic sludge out of Akaashi’s brain. Maims with love and safety. It’s not what Akaashi wants. It’s not what he needs. 

He needs Bokuto. Needs to be fucked open and apologized to. Needs soft caresses and teeth at his palm. No alternatives diluting immediate gratification. Selfish harm. Selfish love. Selfish skin. 

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” Akaashi replies evenly as he slips on Bokuto’s leather jacket. It’s ripped near the left armpit and stained with cheap tequila. Akaashi thinks he left it behind for a reason. Kenma never fails to remind him that Bokuto has always hated the smell of tequila.Not even a flinch is gifted to Akaashi when he nudges past the blonde. Not an eyelash is batted when he slings a bag over his shoulder. 

However, Kenma does try to stop him with a wildflower honey stare-- sickeningly sweet and sticky at the back of Akaashi’s neck.It doesn’t do much except make the door slam that much harder. 

Cold bleeds through the leather as soon as he steps outside. The night tiptoes at the edge of snow, but Akaashi doesn’t mind as he walks a familiar route to the abandoned paper warehouse local punk bands and their teenage cult following trash during full moons. The least Bokuto could have done was leave his harley. 

That way he wouldn’t have to scuff his favorite boots even further. 

They were Gucci, and even though their social circle spat at the face of capitalist excess, Bokuto once told him that the boots made his legs looked good so he kept them. Miles long, Bokuto whistled as he tucked his large palm in the back pocket of Akaashi’s skintight jeans. 

Nostalgia caresses sweet and soft and it’s so hard to push it away, Akaashi realizes. Everyday things have lost their monotony, replaced with beasts of pillow fangs and comforting eyes. The scent of old metal, the scratchy interior of leather, the press of fishnets. It’s not an urgent fire like the memories of their lovemaking or Bokuto’s laugh. It’s a soft humming. A heartbeat beneath he floorboards that drives him mad. It’s embarrassingly easy to lose himself in the pale pink haze of his adoration— of his uncanny ability to reduce even the most distinct to a blurred cotton wad of something relating to the only affection he wants to ever know. 

“Hey Kaashi,” a familiar voice voice rumbles through the brisk air. It’s Sarukui, lazy gaze fixed on the raven’s bony knees. “Long time no see.” Sarukui’s the type to know more than you ever will. Even his signature curl of lips doesn’t do his information hoarding any justice. Akaashi thinks he crawls through ribcages for fun, fills his veins with lovers’ ink. 

Washio’s right next to him, sparing Akaashi a tight but friendly nod. The two of them have been working as pseudo-bouncers ever since Bokuto drank the last of their whiskey stash one afternoon, slurring into the phone “you’d fuck people up for me, right Saru?” as Akaashi bounced on his lap. Washio was better at the heavy lifting, but Sarukui could emotionally dissect a brick wall. 

If the two men are surprised to see Akaashi here, they hide it well. 

 

He’s hungry.

 

The screech and pull of too tight strings whispers through the poorly secured door, bass and drums and feet and heads pounding against brick and cement. It’s so familiar, too familiar, that Akaashi’s skin begins to itch. He’s used to hearing it from the dressing room, though, not from the cold of outside. Outsider. 

The question of whether or not Bokuto left in more ways than one is at the tip of his tongue, but Akaashi doesn’t want to speak the uncertainty into existence so instead he asks

“Is Koutarou on right now?” So straightforward that even Washio seems taken aback. Sarukui only hums, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Akaashi notices the scar under his eye then, remembers the night that Konoha smashed a beer bottle against his face because cocaine is one hell of a drug. He can’t help but smile, but it comes off more warm than vindictive. His bag is heavy. He’s hungry.

Sarukui tilts his head, gesturing at said bag. “Spending the night?” 

“… Yes. I’ll see you both later. You look well.” 

Sarukui makes a move to stop him, but Washio holds his friend back. Washio had always been the smarter of the two. 

He’s hungry. 

 

There is no sound when he steps into the warehouse. There must be music, must be vocals and skin against skin and knuckles breaking against cymbals. But Akaashi can’t hear anything, can’t see anything, can’t register anything because Bokuto 

 

is 

 

here. 

 

A region of spacetime exhibiting such strong gravitational effects that nothing can escape from inside it. A transient astronomical event that occurs during the last stellar evolutionary stages of a massive star's life, whose destruction is marked by one final titanic explosion. An unusual outflow of highly energetic radiation and material normally observed in starburst galaxies. 

 

Stars die, but maybe that’s the best part. 

 

Bold platinum hair sticks to his forehead, sweat slick and adrenaline pumping as he blesses the mic with godly breath. Akaashi is hungry, he is hungry and desperate desperate desperate. He just wants to rip Bokuto open and live in his lungs, make him understand the weight he bears in the raven’s life. Wants him to feel the pain of this obsession, of this need to be one and only. There’s no time for that, though, so he stays still near the entrance. 

And their eyes meet. Their eyes meet and its the sun collapsing into a never-ending sea. It’s Lovecraftian and Romanticist. He’s never felt so overwhelming. He’s never felt so small. Everything is infinitesimal and meaningless with the knowledge of the fact that Bokuto will never compare to anything or anyone out there. That those wide solar flares are all he needs to breathe. All he needs to know. 

 

Goddammit. 

 

Akaashi makes a beeline to the disgusting makeshift dressing rooms. He’s never been in this particular warehouse but he knows the location by heart because they’ve been in the exact situation, in the exact space-time erosion as right now. His legs carry him through the noise and crowds, but not before spotting three men at the side of the stage wiping their jaws of some broken glass. They’re smiling stained teeth and Akaashi smiles right back— sickly sweet— before nudging open the dirty door to an old file room. 

Beer bottles line forgotten the forgotten desk placed ominously in the middle of the room, and the guitarist’s jacket is swung over a bulb less lamp. Akaashi’s surprised to find a flashlight lighting the room rather than the debris of Nazi punk band records— tossed in an old metal bin along with a dollar store lighter and some kerosene. It must be their new manager. He’s too clean cut for it all. Bokuto doesn’t like him, Akaashi knows, but Shirofuku needed to get clean before she moved back to Shioya to take care of her grandmother, so the band needed to take whatever they could get at such short notice. 

Briefly, he wonders if she’s doing okay, but knows her therapist told her to delete all of their contacts and not to write. Akaashi respects that. He can’t be mad, straight and/or narrow was hardly in his vocabulary. 

 

Less briefly he wonders if he should strip out of this leather, wait for Bokuto bare and prepped to get ripped apart. He didn’t care if his bandmates saw or watched, it wouldn’t be the first time. 

There’s not enough time for him to indulge in his exhibitionist fantasies, because there’s the sweetest sound of rust rubbing hinges, of heavy breathing and the muffled creaking of a mangled heart. 

Bokuto shoves his platinum hair out of his eyes, closing the door behind him but not drawing any closer, admiring Akaashi from the immeasurable distance of three feet. Music still filters in through old metal and wood, someone from the crowd taking over the responsibilities of frying their vocal chords. Akaashi swallows down a prayer and Bokuto only looks at him with everything the universe took away when Akaashi was made physical. 

“Keiji,” Bokuto takes in his presence like saltwater to his lungs. Akaashi can only smile, reaching into the bag he had carelessly dropped to the floor. Bokuto is so beautiful, so inexplicably perfect that Akaashi can’t doubt the existence of heaven or hell, present right in front of him. 

 

Akaashi takes out his shotgun, cooing before releasing a bullet into Bokuto’s gut. 

 

Dark red forgiveness soaks Bokuto’s wrinkled white shirt as he staggers, hitting the door and grasping for purchase, for anything, gasping and hacking but not looking at Akaashi. He falls to the floor, cradling the searing pain a the corner of the room, leaning against an old corkboard. He’s convulsing, trying to get anything other than thick red into his lungs. The wound is gaping and ugly and it’s right where Akaashi wanted it to be. 

No one notices. No one hears. Everyone’s too strung out or their ears are stuffed to the brim with wood and adrenaline.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, Akaashi lowers the gun and walks over to the body of the love of his life, smelling of smoke and iron and all the things the Old Testament warns of. It’s messy. It’s splattered all over the walls and its seeping into the concrete under them. Bokuto stills, but his insides still wheeze out of him in spurts, unyielding and hard. 

 

Akaashi huffs, nudging Bokuto’s boot with his own

 

“Jeez, Keiji,” Bokuto gasps out a laugh. He tilts his head, licking the blood that hit him near his chin and grinning wide wide wide. “I think I preferred getting my neck sliced. This shit burns.” He stands up then, twisting his shoulders and stretching out, no doubt cramped up from the way his body tensed from enduring a bullet. Akaashi only keeps his mouth in a straight line, exterior unwavering in the face of Bokuto’s sunshine. 

“Aw, come on baby. Don’t be like that. I haven’t seen you in months,” he sings so sweetly, bringing up a blood covered hand to Akaashi’s lips. He’s hungry, so he licks at Bokuto’s open hand, savoring the saccharine gore that coats the roof of his mouth. It had been so long, too long, and the taste of Bokuto after not feeding for weeks nearly has him climaxing but he keeps his resolve ice cold save for a low moan. Bokuto grips his chin, makes Akaashi wrinkle his nose because he’s spent a lot of money on skincare for this night. 

“You know I left for a reason, love. I wouldn’t leave you like that for no reason. C’mon, Keiji! Ya gotta talk to meeeeee.” The blonde pouts and Akaashi wavers enough to show his frustration. 

“Not a call. Only a stupid, ugly note in my book, Koutarou. Nothing else. You’re unbelievable.” And he sticks his manicured nails into the mending bullet wound, making Bokuto wince and throw his hands up in surrender.

“Ow, ow! Okay! Yeah, but Keiji, I got you somethin’ special, ya know?” His nails are removed from bursting skin. It hadn’t occurred to him that Bokuto might have left for him. He had done more reckless things before. “My boys found a hunter, right? We had to leave right then. We had to keep it not he down low so no one would find out, right? We’d been tailing him for months. And we got him, Keiji. We got him good.” It’s so animalistic and strikingly sexy that Akaashi’s about ready to forgive Bokuto and recklessly fuck on stage, but his mouth is watering and his veins are stinging for food. 

A hunter, and Bokuto got him good. God, how long had it been since he had gotten to feed off a hunter, even longer since he fed off a hunter killed by his mate. He’s definitely not into the whole traditional primal bullshit, but he’s definitely into it. His mind is racked with images of Bokuto tearing into skin and heart, coating himself with the shade of red that compliments his eyes and smile so well and Akaashi falls in love all over again. Cracks his head open on the pavement for Bokuto to mar and mangle but that’s love. That’s Akaashi’s love. 

“I got him for you, since I knew your birthday’s comin’ up. This is just a taste, baby. We’ve got jars of it. Even a heart preserved. It’s so sweet, you’ll lose your mind,” Bokuto rambles on as he reaches into his backpack tossed somewhere on the floor, pulling out a meticulously washed beer bottle filled to the brim with dark red. Oh, and he can smell it. He grabs the bottle from Bokuto’s hand and breaks the glass at the top, not bothering with opening it properly because he’s so damn excited. So damn hungry and eager to taste exactly what Bokuto’s hunted for, killed for. 

It goes down like sex and starlight. It lights up his insides and makes him groan, makes him feel like the rawest form of being. Kenma can eat his ass. 

He finishes the bottle, pupils blown and lips aching for something else to wrap around. Bokuto has that big dumb grin on his face again and he tucks a stray curl behind Akaashi’s ear. “Ah, I love you baby. You’re so fuckin’ beautiful when you’re like this.” Akaashi throws the empty bottle against an adjacent wall before pulling Bokuto into a brimstone kiss, more teeth and tongue than anything. 

“Don’t you ever leave me again.” 

Bokuto opens his mouth to protest, but Akaashi tugs at his hair to elicit a low growl from the older. 

“Take me with you next time. I wanna fuck in blood and guts.” 

It’s something Bokuto can’t argue with, so he only nods in agreement. 

**Author's Note:**

> hey it's ya girl, uh, writesafanfictioneveryotheryear. i just wanted more horror bokuaka fics bye


End file.
